


too good to be good for me

by elainebarrish



Category: Political Animals
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, It's probably more vague than the show is actually, Nothing thats worse than in the show tho, References to drug addiction, this is just me being gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she's so much, she's the president and she's elaine and she's a woman who cares for her kids so fiercely that it's the only thing that could get in the way of her ambitions. she's the woman you love. she's soft in the evenings and wittier than the interviews would have you think and she's real, in a way you never thought you'd get to experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too good to be good for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firelordazulas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelordazulas/gifts).



> idek how this happened basically im gay and so r they
> 
> I actually wrote this as a whim but like it works for the make me choose I did on my blog like three weeks ago + then never finished. so thanks tori u did me a solid hmu at http://kyltemnestras.tumblr.com

She’s the president, just like you knew she always would be, she’s being sworn in and you’re going to have to write an article about this, you always have to write an article about it, but all you can think about is her tired, her relaxed, her falling asleep on your sofa in front of the news. Her at home, her with TJ, her smiling at you across a room, her exasperated but still fond as Bud attempts to spin her around the room, as he attempts to worm his way back in. There’s thousands of moments that you’ve been privy to over the last year, that you shouldn’t have been there for, but you’re some kind of awful unwanted necessity, someone who has been there through the worst moments of the last two years, through TJ relapsing again, through Elaine almost giving up, through Garcetti’s death. Through the joke that was Collier’s two years in office, two years that almost cost the Democrats the presidential seat.

All of that and here she is, the most competent woman in politics, the best damn Secretary of State anyone could have hoped for, and Collier looks as though he’d rather die than be here, because he knows these things and he knows that the only reason he was VP was because no one thought there was anyway that Garcetti could die. He knows she’ll be a good president, as much as anyone could be in the current political climate, and so does everyone watching, so do all of those Republicans that probably curse her before they go to sleep at night. You know she’ll be a good president, you’ve always known, even as you wrote scathing articles about her lack of experience and her douchebag of a husband.

You write something down, aimlessly, something about Collier’s kicked puppy expression, and you wonder if you’ll be able to use that, but you figure it’s better than filling your notepad with your thoughts about that shade of blue on Elaine, or waxing lyrical about the light hitting her hair. You always have been a writer at the core of it, and your occasional romantic notion only ever seems to make itself known upon the appearance of Elaine, and you’re actually finding yourself rather tired of being unable to concentrate in her presence. Two years of writing articles about her, for her, articles that she gave you the stories for, that she gives you quotes for, that she lets you use things that you know would be off the record for anyone else in. Two years and you still can barely write when she’s present, and you still have to write down what she says word by word and then take it and make it into something presentable later. You don’t think you’re good, not anymore, you’re not lucky or brash or a stone cold bitch, you’re someone that’s in love with your main source, and that main source is the goddamn President of the United States.

Two months later and you’re still reporting on her, because as a political correspondent she’s the biggest story you’re going to find, the only story that anyone wants to hear about, and everyone is still waiting for her to slip up. You know there have been slip ups, that things have gone south behind the scenes several times since she stepped into the Oval Office, but nothing that her team couldn’t solve, nothing that her press secretary couldn’t spin into something good. Sometimes she gives you the story late, let’s you publish something that isn’t breaking because it’s past but is still something that no one else got to write about. She still comes over to bitch about her party and the Republicans and Bud being absolutely exasperating, and you still receive invitations to things that you definitely shouldn’t have been invited to, things that you would usually have to call in a favour and be someone’s plus one just to get through the door.

There have been several nights, over the last two months where you’ve finally had to stay put in the apartment that you haven’t made home yet that you’ve wondered what writing a piece about Elaine’s hair would be like. You’ve made countless indulgent references to how good she looks at her age, gotten more than enough flack from Alex about it and had him edit it out, and you want to write a whole article about how she glows when she looks at people she cares about. You want to write an article about the way that she will do anything to protect her sons, about the way that she reacts when Margaret Barrish starts on her, as she often does, you want to write a whole book about the way that Elaine interacts with the people she loves, but mostly you want to write about how she interacts with you, and then compare it. Because you need to know what it means, what the private glances and the smiles and her stealing your last beer actually really mean to her. You think of yourself as somewhat of an expert at reading her, the one person that can tell when tiredness is only just starting to set in, who can tell which politicians marginally annoy her and which she despises. You pay more attention than even the press corp does, and you still don’t know what she really thinks of you.

You think of yourself as a nasty necessity, someone that Elaine has in her pocket and can use when she needs to, someone that will break things in a mostly objective but still rather positive way, someone who is happy to lie and to upset your editor just for a way in, just to continue being her pet reporter. You have to admit that just pet reporter doesn’t explain the secret service agents that end up sat in your kitchen sometimes, or the way that TJ seems to honestly like you now, or how Margaret still glares at you but is only occasionally actually rude. So, friends then, friends who do normal friend things like sit an appropriate distance away from each other on the sofa when watching a kid’s film, friends who pretend like they don’t notice each other sniffling during Big Hero 6. Friends who steal each other’s showers (and occasionally each other’s jumpers), who know their way around each other’s kitchens, who end up breaking that appropriate distance when they’ve had a few drinks.

The kind of friends where sometimes she just texts you, asks if she can come over for a bit, and she appears with two bottles of wine and tired eyes and you just ask “bad day, huh?” and she nods and then you end up watching something terrible and getting a bit drunk. Other times she comes over hoping you have a six pack in the fridge (which you usually do) and you both end up falling asleep on the sofa after several hours of complaining about incompetent politicians and useless Republicans and worrying about TJ (worrying about TJ is something that comes up often, has always been something that remains at the forefront of Elaine’s subconscious, and is close to the front of yours now too).

The kind of friends where TJ calls you at 3am and you don’t know what to do. You obviously tell him you’ll pick him up, and you find him sat on a curb, thankfully fully clothed, but as soon as you see him with the lights inside the car on you realise his pupils are dilated so far you don’t know how he isn’t just falling down. You think about taking him to the emergency room, but he doesn’t look like he’s having a bad trip, he just looks like he got kicked out of whoever’s bed he probably wasn’t supposed to be in.

“You won’t tell Mum, right? Like I know you guys are basically married or whatever, but you can’t.” He says immediately, as you start in the direction of your apartment after a long pause where you considered taking him straight home, straight to Elaine, but she needs her sleep and you know how she’ll worry. It’s better to call her in the morning, to have her collect him once he’s come down and is shaking and pale and sweating. Elaine’s dealt with that enough times to know what to do, to be able to do it without it affecting her work, but staying up through the night worrying about him won’t do anyone any good.

“TJ, we’re not basically married, whatever that means, and you know I have to tell her.” You hope you’re not blushing, that he can’t tell that you’re trying not to think about that.

“You don’t have to, you know she’ll just worry about me. And even if you’re not you want you guys to be.”

“What I want has nothing to do with it,” you muttered, not even thinking to deny it. TJ’s always seen through you, and ever since you accidentally said you liked Sigourney Weaver after he mentioned Alien once he’s been eyeing you like he’s known that you’re not completely straight. “I have to tell her because she’s going to notice when you go through withdrawal anyway, and you’re not staying at mine for three days, and I’m not leaving you to go out into the wild and score something else.”

“You know she loves you, right?” He asks, and doesn’t even bother to respond to you about his mother because he knows you’re right, and you figure he probably knew that you were going to insist he told her as soon as he called you.

“That’s not,” you shrugged, uncomfortable, trying to concentrate on the road. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insisted, and his head lolls back as he slumps into the seat, turning his head against the headrest to look at you. “She’s never looked at anyone like that, not even Dad, not even when we were younger.”

“Like what?” And you’re trying so hard not to get your hopes up, trying not to hope that those looks across crowded rooms and the way she smiles at you when there’s no one else there to see actually mean anything, trying to tell yourself that she’s just indulging you, that she treats all of her friends the way she treats you.

“Like you’re the only person she sees.” It’s quiet for a moment, as you try to concentrate on driving instead of thinking about every moment you’ve ever shared with her over the last two years. “She talks about you all of the time,” he says, finally, quietly. “It’s like she can’t believe you exist or something. She reads all of your articles, even the ones about her, which she usually avoids, and I found her rereading your book the other day.” You can’t help the smile that comes over your face at that, and he’s smirking when he notices. “But she’s not going to make a move, because she assumes that she’s too old and too boring and too much of the president for you to be interested, that you don’t want to have to sneak around or put up with paparazzi, or put up with her.”

“All those things would be worth it.” You don’t even mean to say it, and you hope that he forgets this weird conversation in the morning.

“And that's why I think you should go for it,” he smiled. “Because I believe that you think that. Also she needs to relax and getting laid might help.”

“TJ!” you immediately scolded, and he just held up his hands and shrugged, smiling.

When you get back he drinks some water and passes out in your spare room, but not before asking you not to tell Elaine again, though with little conviction or hope that you wouldn't. You just roll your eyes and he shrugs again, still smiling. He thanks you, quietly, standing in the doorway of your spare room, and you tell him that you're always here if he needs anything. He pulls a face and closes the door behind him.

You check the time. 4am. If you text her now it hopefully won't wake her up, she’ll rush over first thing in the morning, and she won't have had time to worry about where TJ was. You send her a quick text, just a one-liner that says TJ’s safe, you picked him up, you'd see her in the morning. You can't help but slip in that you hope she's sleeping well. You slip your jeans back off, glad to get into bed, and you hope Elaine doesn't check her phone before 7am.

She calls you at 6am, and she still sounds like she only just woke up, her voice deeper than usual, and when you croak a response you don't manage to sound as alert as she does.

“How's TJ?” she asks, immediately, because nothing gets in the way of her mothering once she's worried, so you get up, murmur that you're going to go check on him, and you're glad to see that he's still asleep, still breathing.

“He's alive, he's asleep in my spare room.” You whisper, closing the door again and sitting on the sofa, even though you really just want to return to bed.

“I'm coming over to come get him,” and you hear shuffling and you realise that she must have called you from in bed, that she’d checked her phone and then immediately called about TJ.

“Okay I might be asleep when you get here,” and you yawn as if it was summoned, and Elaine laughs even though usually when this is happening her mind’s so preoccupied she doesn't notice 90% of what people even say to her, it’s like background noise, overshadowed by her parental panic.

She hangs up before the flurry of background noise progresses to overtake her speaking, and you jab TJ in the ribs before you go back to bed, warning him that she's coming, then you go back to bed and try to convince your fast beating heart to stop jumping into your throat.

You answer the door in a half-asleep daze, barely having swum back up to the land of consciousness by the time she's in your apartment, checking on TJ before anything else, and you have to fight the urge to lay down on the sofa. You feel like you’re intruding as she berates him while kissing him on the forehead, and you think then that this is one of those moments you're going to remember, Elaine white-faced and relieved with a half-asleep TJ in her arms. You notice the low murmur of two secret service agents coming from your kitchen and suddenly remember that you're still in your pyjamas, but Elaine’s seen you looking worse than this, at least you're not hungover, at least you took your makeup off before you went to bed.

She looks up, makes eye contact with you awkwardly perched on your own sofa, and she smiles, looks at you like how TJ described, and now of all times you realise that he was right, that there's something between the two of you that isn't one sided. She gets TJ out of bed, and him and the two secret service agents lead the way quietly out of your apartment, but she lingers, watching them go.

“Thank you for picking him up, you didn't have to.”

“I'm just glad I could help.” You stand, facing her, the two of you adrift in your small living room, both of you smiling, you having to look up because you don't have heels to help you now, your socked feet vulnerable on the bare wood.

“I'll come over tonight,” she says suddenly. “If you're free.”

“I'm always free for you,” you say, and you hope it doesn't come over as desperate as you feel.

“I'll see you later,” she smiles, softly, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “So I can thank you properly.”

“It really wasn't that much trouble, but I'll look forward to it.”

She moves towards the door, and you exchange goodbyes again, and then she closes your front door behind her and you're left, 7:30 early than you usually get up for work, so you go back to bed, smiling regardless of the circumstances that lead to her presence in your living room. No one even felt it necessary to mention that this entire thing was off the record, and you think of that as the final proof that the Barrish-Hammond family trusts you. Elaine comes as a package, comes with Bud, even, and you’re prepared to take all of that on for her. You’re prepared to do whatever she wants you to, whatever she needs. You sleep until your alarm with a smile on your face, and you're late to work because you kept getting distracted while getting dressed.

She doesn't make it over until 10pm, because there was another crisis in the White House that she had to deal with, and she's been sending you apologetic texts since about 7pm, and you think this is probably what it would be like to date the president. You don't mind, how could you when you know that sometimes you can't make things because of a deadline or a breaking story or something happening at the Globe. You know that sometimes you can be present but also on your phone constantly, checking on a currently unravelling situation, and you're glad that the things that will have you unable to be there are things that will also be affecting Elaine.

She wakes you up from your nap by ringing your buzzer, and you practically run from your sofa to let her in, checking your phone and realising that she warned you she was coming as she makes her way up through your apartment building. Everything has that slightly surreal quality the world has after an unplanned nap, and you notice that the lights are still off because it was light when you fell asleep, and that your hair is very flat on one side and your blouse is creased and there's not enough time for you to do anything about that because she’s already coming through the door you left ajar for her, closing it behind her.

“Why is it so dark in here?” she asks with a laugh, and you blush as you realise you're going to have to admit you fell asleep in front of the TV at 8pm.

“I fell asleep,” you admit, and she laughs, both of you flicking lamps on, filling the room with warm pools of light.

“Have you eaten?” she asks softly and you shake your head. “Do you have anything in?” she continues and you laugh. “I'll take that as a no. Chinese?” she suggests and you dig up a menu from in between your sofa cushions, because that had been what you were planning to do before you fell asleep.

“A good place to keep it,” she teases and you laugh as both of you sit down, the world still feeling slightly surreal and both of you feel as though you're on the precipice of something.

“We always order the same thing anyway,” you counter, and she nods. “How's TJ?” You ask suddenly and she sighs, and you realise she looks tired, that she always looks tired at the moment.

“He's still at home, at least, or that's what I last heard anyway. No news is good news.”

“That's good.” You try to smile comfortingly and you want to take her hand but you don't know whether that's what she wants.

“I know I said it this morning but really, thank you.” She smiles and looks at you, the look that makes it feel as though she's shined a spotlight onto you and is trying to see into your thoughts.

“Anytime, honestly. Although apparently being woken up at 3am now means I need a nap,” you laughed, and she shook her head, still smiling, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. She looks almost fragile, here in your living room with the line of her shoulders curved and her face downcast. You put your hand in hers (only marginally internally freaking out), and you try to smile encouragingly. “TJ will be okay, he always is.”

“It’s not just TJ,” she sighed, frustrated, and when she looks up your faces are much closer than you'd anticipated, and you don't even know where to look. “I come with a lot of baggage,” she says and it seems out of the blue but you think she's attempting to address the tension in the room.

“I know that, I've always known that.” And you shuffle a little closer, despite yourself, body turned towards hers, hand still held by both of hers. “I know what I'm taking on,” you murmur.

“I'm not sure you do,” she smiles, and you want to kiss her, want to kiss the tension around her eyes away, you want to feel her smile against your lips.

“I'm expecting to not be able to tell people while I keep smiling at work, or having you phone last minute and cancel, I'm expecting the shitstorm if the press ever find out, and I'm used to secret service agents being sat in my kitchen. I'm used to secrets.” You smiled. “And I can always write a book about it in ten years and win another Pulitzer.”

“It’s only fitting that your second should be awarded for works about me as well.” You're smiling when she leans forward and kisses you, and you're so giddy you're almost laughing nervously, one of her hands on your jaw and you're holding onto her shoulder like you're drowning, still holding hands.

“That's not permission for you to write the book, by the way.” She says sternly when you break apart, and you laugh, loud and giddy and slightly hysterical, and she's smiling, here in your apartment that you still didn't like with warm light deepening the shadows under her cheekbones.

“I'll convince you somehow.” She’s still smiling when you kiss her again, lips curved against yours and you almost want to pinch yourself. The two of you still order Chinese, eat it while giggling like relieved schoolgirls, and when you go to bed she steals one of your t-shirts and you curl up next to her, your legs entwined until you get too warm and complain, and she just laughs and you end up with your head pillowed on her chest and you can hear her heartbeat and you look up and there she is. The president of the United States, wearing a tshirt you've owned for long enough the hem is ratty and there's a hole in one of the armpits and she tells you to stop staring and go to sleep but you can feel her eyes on you, and when you look at her next she's still looking at you. You kiss her slowly, softly, and she smiles and you both fall asleep at around the same time. You learn she snores, which humanises her a little, and she complains about how much you fidget, and it works, somehow.


End file.
